Like a Flame
by CatEye360
Summary: Nothing about Fred Weasley was gentle or subtle. But Angelina had always known this about him. One shot about Fred and Angelina while the Golden Trio are on the run.


Nothing about Fred Weasley was gentle or subtle. But Angelina had always known this about him and accepted – welcomed, even - that he was a constant gale that was always roaring, even when he was physically still. To prevail upon him to be otherwise would have been to deny his essence. Angelina Johnson had known and accepted this about the tall red-haired boy the instant she laid eyes on him on a warm September afternoon on Platform 9 3/4.

She could never pinpoint what it was exactly: the handmade sweaters that were just a little short around the wrists, the long unruly red hair he was constantly running his fingers through, or that roar he called a laugh that effortlessly carried down the Great Hall – everything about his person screamed to be noticed, to be looked at, and to be regarded individually. He was always in motion too, even when sitting still, hands always tinkering with something.

But all this made sense in the air, on the Quidditch field. Airborne, Fred Weasley was a streamlined thing of grace, almost predatory in the ease with which he swooped over and trailed about her, bat in hand, bludgeoning a clear path for her. Once she had teased him about it, mid-air, mid-practice.

"Oy Weasley, I thought I was the Chaser here, not you!" she jeered as he hurtled through the air, just inches from her own broomstick, "and even if you are, I'm not the quaffle!"

"You see these arms, Johnson?" he'd called back, "they're here to protect you as our fearless captain! But let me know when you're ready to chase something else besides that boring old quaffle. I'm right here."

His grin split across his face at her eye roll and he winked before veering off. Angelina couldn't quite blame the heat that crept across her face on windburn as she abruptly decided she'd better work on her dives to put a little distance between her flushing cheeks and the open invitation in his eyes.

Angelina remembered all too well how strong Fred Weasley was. She'd separated fights on the field when Malfoy mouthed off one too many times and had been on the receiving end of plenty a Weasley bludger during practices.

But she also keenly remembered the tightness in her stomach that night of Yule Ball, when he held her a little closer than she thought he would - _weren't they just friends?_ \- how the nape of her neck tingled when he had accidentally brushed her ear with his mouth to make a joke. She had pled that her feet were hurting from heels as an excuse to hold onto him, pressing against his lean frame. She could have sworn that his hand was slowly (but so pleasantly) searing a brand on the small of her back as he walked beside her onto the dance floor, and quietly thrilled at the firm but gentle press of his forearm along her waist.

Fred Weasley, it seemed, could be gentle when he wanted. But not now. Not right at this very moment.

A large hand fisted in her hair to yank her face around to look into the darkest blue eyes she'd ever seen. Eyes that were gleaming, even in lust, with such laughter.

 _It was funny_ , Angelina thought as she arched her back and hitched her leg higher on the table to accommodate his thrusting, _it was funny how flushed Fred's ears got when he was aroused_. That was the last coherent thought she had for a while.

It was hard to say when, or how, the vibe between the two of them changed.

It could have been the needier, slightly desperate manner they started seeking each other out, sometimes skipping niceties altogether upon arrival. Often, there would simply be a running charge from the floo that would end in bruising from hardwood floor and torn clothes.

It could have been the radio; always set at the station Dean Thomas would carefully whisper names into every night.

It could have been that both of them kept a go bag at the other's place – always – and slept with their wands under their pillow, DA galleons within reach of their fingers.

It could have been the fucking. The fucking that left quiet tremors and aftershocks running through her for hours afterwards, a slight hum that seemed to radiate from her fingertips, a musk that hung in her hair.

This was different.

This wasn't like back in school, where it was quiet and hush-hush in dark corridors, clumsy hands shyly skimming under her skirt, timidly pushing aside her panties as she tentatively gripped his cock. This wasn't like back on the common room couch, slapdash and hurried, biting each other's hands cause you never knew when someone was going to come downstairs.

Now there was so much gripping and pulling and turning. And so much heat – a heat so white hot Angelina was sure she was going to come undone and die if Freddie didn't touch her. But he could never not touch her, even when they weren't fucking.

Now, he constantly ran his fingers through her hair instead of his own. He'd hold her elbow as they walked together, his heat seeping into her side. When they lay facing each other in the early morning light, he'd tap out rhythms with his fingertips along her ribs and her thighs. His hands trailed fire across her skin as he traced her body over and over, as if he were committing it to memory, physically assuring himself she was still there.

He'd always been a flame to her and it would only be a matter of time before there was nothing left but ashes, but for now she wanted nothing more than to burn with him.


End file.
